


the knight of this story drives a silver jeep

by romanovaly



Category: To All the Boys I've Loved Before Series - Jenny Han, To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before (2018)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 23:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15982544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanovaly/pseuds/romanovaly
Summary: “kitty?”there’s a quiet sniffle and then a loud sob and peter feels his heart drop to his stomach. he loves lara jean, is damn near sure he’s gonna marry her one day, but kitty—with her big dreams and endless confidence, so much her own person and yet utterly shaped by the women who surround her—holds a special place in his heart, the little sister he’s never had.





	the knight of this story drives a silver jeep

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be a cute short thing about peter playing big brother to kitty and it turned into this 4,000+ monster. idk man idk. also, i mix book and movie canon like its guacamole and for that i do not apologize.

He’s in the middle of beating two frat douches at beer pong when the call comes. It’s early enough that there’s a seventy percent chance it’s Lara Jean calling to say good night and a thirty percent chance she went out with friends and is drunk calling him. 

Peter hopes it’s the latter, Lara Jean is the cutest drunk over the phone. 

He hands off the pong ball to one of his lacrosse teammates, waving his lit-up phone. “Girlfriend,” he tells the group, unnecessarily, and ducks away. The ringing ends as he winds his way through the crowded townhouse, searching for a quiet place to talk to Lara Jean. He’s just pushed his way out the front door and is halfway down the block when it starts ringing again. he flips the phone around, intending to answer, when his gaze pauses on the Caller ID. It’s not the picture he expected of Lara Jean, sleepy in his bed, her long hair splayed across his pillow and the neck of his old Adler High sweatshirt slipping down her shoulder. 

This picture still has Lara Jean, but it’s got Kitty too. The two of them making ridiculous faces at the camera and never failing to put a smile on Peter’s face when he sees it. 

Except, of course, right now. 

It’s later than he thought. The clock’s pushing 1AM on a Friday night, the Covey household’s general curfew, and while he and Kitty text constantly and he makes sure to take her out for milkshakes at the Corner Cafe whenever he can, this—this isn’t normal. 

He swipes a finger across the bottom of his phone, answering the call. It’s quiet on the other end, he can hear muffled voices and maybe music? Peter isn’t sure. 

“Kitty?”  

There’s a quiet sniffle and then a loud sob and Peter feels his heart drop to his stomach. He loves Lara Jean, is damn near sure he’s gonna marry her one day, but Kitty—with her big dreams and endless confidence, so much her own person and yet utterly shaped by the women who surround her—holds a special place in his heart, the little sister he’s never had. 

“Kitty,” he repeats, more urgently, his concern growing by the mile. “What happened, where are you?” 

He’s gripping his phone so tight the edges are cutting into the palm of his hand. 

“P-p-party,” Kitty says between stuttering breaths, before crying again. The Song-Covey girls like to talk about how Margot never cries, but Peter can count on one hand the number of times Kitty’s shed a tear. Lara Jean, her sisters claim, is the crier of their trio. The other two endlessly joking about how often she’s cried over boys (well, one in particular, figures Peter, _him_ ) through the years. Kitty would never cry in such a public place as a party. 

“I’m on my way,” Peter tells Kitty, he’s running now back to his apartment and his Jeep. The fear thrumming though his veins shaking off whatever beer he drank earlier. “Where are you, who’s house? Are you alone? What happened?”

Peter’s only two years out of high school, but it might as well be decades as he thinks who took over Gabe Rivera’s role as King of the Party Scene. He remembers what it was like, freshmen year, walking into some upperclassman’s house and seeing all the people and booze for the first time. How he had gripped Gen’s hand tight as they wound their way around the crowds until they came to something familiar. It had been a far cry from the basement at John Ambrose McClaren’s house. 

He tries to imagine Kitty, now, so upset and scared that she called him and, for the hundredth time, he wishes that Lara Jean hadn’t gone to college hours away, that they were at the Covey house right this second watching John Hughes movies and keeping that wide smile on Kitty’s face. 

“Ben Whitmer’s house,” Kitty tells him, voice small. She’s not crying anymore, or at least not noisily. Peter knows Whitmer, or of him at least, a junior on the varsity basketball team with a house even bigger than Gabe’s. More importantly, Peter knows _where_ his place is, just blocks from Darrell’s house and less than a twenty-minute drive from his apartment. 

He hops in his car and races down the street as Kitty spills the story, “I sat at Madison’s table at lunch today and these guys came over to invite her to the party and Sarah said she could get her older brother to drop us off and Daddy’s working and Trina is in Austin for a work conference and I remember how Lara Jean would talk about going to parties and I just wanted to see—I just wanted to see what it was like.”

Peter can see the lights of Whitmer’s neighborhood, presses his foot a little harder on the gas pedal. “Where are your friends? Madison and Sarah and Brielle?”

“I don’t know,” wails Kitty. “Madison went with some seniors and Sarah went to find her boyfriend and me and Brielle were by the pool and then she went to refill our cups but she never came back and this guy came up behind me and—and,” she breaks off and Peter knows they’ve hit the real reason Kitty’s been crying. Because whatever Peter might feel towards Josh Sanderson, he knows the guy has only ever treated Kitty like a princess. And, Peter always goes out of his way to make sure Kitty knows how important she is to him. For as practical as she can be, Kitty retains some of Lara Jean’s romantic idealism and Peter’s sure that innocence has been shattered tonight by one dumb drunk older guy. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he says trying to calm her down. “I just got here. Where are you?”

“I don’t know, a room? I think it’s a bathroom.” 

He pulls up right in Whitmer’s driveway, scattering drunken high schoolers. There’s a general swell of chatter as Peter climbs out of his car and pushes his way into the crowded house. A couple of the braver upperclassmen shout out at him.  

“Reliving your glory days, Kavinsky?”

“Hey, Kavinsky, couldn’t quite hack it at the college level, huh?” 

He ignores them, turning down a hallway in search of the bathroom. He finds an office, a laundry room, and two very occupied guest rooms until he reaches Kitty’s hiding spot. She’s sitting on the toilet, mascara running down her cheeks, dark hair neatly curled and wearing a dress and heels that Peter is sure came from the depths of Lara Jean’s overflowing closet.  

Kitty leaps into his arms the second she sees him and he can smell the liquor that lingers on her. Peter wonders how much she’s had to drink, there’s a red flush high on her cheeks and her pupils are blown so wide her eyes look black. 

“C’mon, little Covey,” he says, gathering her forgotten purse from the floor. “Let’s get you home.”

“No,” Kitty replies, planting her feet on the ground and frowning. Peter could pick her up and just walk out, but he figures that’s more embarrassing so he stands and waits. 

“I don’t wanna go home. It’s too quiet.” 

Kitty refuses to look at him, but he can see tears gathering on her lashes and has a sinking feeling he knows why she agreed to go out tonight. 

He wets a towel and hands it to her, “Well, let’s grab milkshakes. It’s what Lara Jean and I usually did after parties.” 

Kitty nods jerkily, uncrossing her arms to take the towel and wipe her face. They exit the bathroom with Peter’s arm around Kitty’s shoulders when someone blocks their path. 

“Jeez Kavinsky, do you have a raging hard-on for those Covey girls or what.” 

It’s Mike Cline, a senior on the hockey team who’s known for his brute strength and not much else. Peter’s only crossed paths with him a couple times, but he can remember how, as a freshman, Cline would leer at Lara Jean in the aftermath of the hot tub video. It still sets Peter’s blood boiling. 

Cline keeps talking, his broad shoulders and barrel chest filling up the hallway they’re in. “I mean I can’t really blame you, that Lara Jean sure was something,” he glances at Kitty, his gaze lingering, “And it seems to run in the family.”  

Kitty wraps her arms around her body, uncomfortableness radiating from her in waves, and Peter wishes he could snap a finger and they’d suddenly be miles away—maybe with Lara Jean and her chocolate chip cookies.  

“Huh, you’re still here, Cline? This is repeat, what? Two? Three?”

Cline makes a fist, “You calling me dumb, Kavinsky?”

“Well, I’m sure not calling you smart,” Peter glibly counters. He takes a few steps forward, shielding Kitty behind him and forcing Cline to stumble back a few steps. Cline’s beady blue eyes are bloodshot and Peter’s sure he’s been on the back porch smoking and chugging cheap beer all night long. He might not have the same breadth as Cline, but he’s got a couple inches on him and he knows how to throw a punch. 

“My promise still stands, you know,” continues Peter, voice calm and almost joking even as his gaze hardens and he crosses his arms against his chest, “I’ll kick your ass if I hear you say anything about Kitty. Or, any girl really,” he adds on. “Think about it,” and then he pushes Cline’s shoulder, pulling Kitty after him and out of the house towards the Jeep. 

Kitty’s trembling like a leaf and Peter roots around in the backseat for the sweatshirt he always leaves there for nights Lara Jean gets cold. She whispers, “Thanks,” and wraps it around her slight frame before climbing into the passenger seat. He makes sure she’s settled before he reverses out of the driveway and onto the street. 

In the dull glow of the street lamp and completely swallowed by his sweater, Kitty looks eleven years old again. Her eyes are closed and she’s pulled her knees up to her chest. He could bring her home and sleep in Lara Jean’s room until Dr. C came back from his shift. Or, he could bring her to his mom’s, she wouldn’t care. But, he thinks back to the bathroom and her stubborn refusal to return to an empty house. Peter knows what Kitty really needs and it wasn’t a milkshake or blueberry pancakes from the Corner Cafe. 

He glances at the clock on his dashboard and taps his fingers against the wheel. No one was on the road this late at night and, if he pushed it, they could probably make it there in two and a half hours. The light turns green and Peter makes the choice, going right instead of left and glancing over at Kitty to make sure she’s really fallen asleep. 

 

——

 

She tosses around, legs tangling in the sheets, and barely refrains from checking her phone for the millionth time. She and her roommates had indulged in a movie night earlier, complete with cheap bottles of wine, homemade brownie batter, and every early 2000s romcom on Netflix. They had ended around two in the morning with _A Cinderella Story_ —the Hilary Duff version, of course—and while Lara Jean wasn’t exactly _worried_ , she found she couldn’t sleep well on the rare nights that Peter forgot to call and say goodnight. It was in their contract, after all, and Peter took that seriously. 

She closes her eyes and burrows into the fluffy comforter she and Kitty had picked out at Bed, Bath, and Beyond before school started this year. she tries to count sheep—in English, in French, in Korean—before her eyes fly open and she groans loudly, giving in and reaching across her bed to grab her phone. The screen is still merrily blank, only showing a picture of her and Peter standing on the balcony at his apartment, his arms wrapped around her and his chin digging into her shoulder as he presses a kiss to her jaw. 

He probably forgot, it’s happened before, where Peter gets caught up in a few things and then calls her early the next day, with a mountain of apologies and some ridiculous promise of sending baked goods to her front door. That’s happened before, too, Lara Jean’s come back from classes to find a bag of mocha sugar donuts waiting for her with a corny handwritten note and Peter’s Jeep parked on the street. 

She debates texting him, a simple heart or a silly emoji face, when her phone starts vibrating in her hands. It’s Peter, his Caller ID still the same selfie from that first party when they were fake dating. Margot would say she’s sentimental that way. Lara Jean likes to think it’s her way of reminding herself how far they’ve really come. That this isn’t a dream and the handsomest boy of all the Handsome Boys had chosen her. 

“Hi,” she answers, sitting up in bed and tucking her hair behind her ear.  

“Hey,” his voice is low and rough, just the way Lara Jean likes it. “I’m sorry for waking you.”

“Oh, you didn’t—I mean I was up—I mean,” she sighs and falls back against her pillows. Peter laughs in her ear, dark and smoky and, God, Lara Jean wishes he was lying in bed with her right now. 

She clears her throat, “What are you up to? You didn’t call earlier.” 

“God, yeah, I’m sorry, something came up.”  

“Oh no, it’s fine. I was just worried. It was movie night in the apartment and I didn’t realize how late it was until I climbed into bed and realized you hadn’t called,” Lara Jean likes these moments best, she thinks, where it’s just her and Peter and nothing else. She’s sure they could talk for hours and never run out of things to say. “Did you have fun tonight? It was Joey’s birthday, right?” 

“Yeah, yeah, it was good,” he sounds distracted and she worries her bottom lip between her teeth. “Listen, Covey, could you do me a huge favor and come to your door?” 

“It’s like 5AM,” she says and Peter grumbles at her, no real words, but Lara Jean complies, “Alright, alright, give me a sec,” she climbs out of bed, rooting around the mess on her floor to find a pair of sturdy slip-ons and an old sweatshirt that probably started its life in Peter’s closet. “You’re not sending me to be kidnapped or, like, murdered, right?”

“What? No,” Peter exclaims. “Just come to the door, Covey. Please.” 

Lara Jean rolls her eyes at his insistence, but grabs her keys from the little glass bowl by the door and scurries down the two flights of stairs to the little vestibule that acts as the lobby of her apartment building. Peter’s standing in the light of the doorway, his dark hair tousled like he spent the last few hours running a hand through it and his shoulders slumped in weariness. He still smiles for her as she opens the door and presses a sweet kiss to her lips in greeting. 

“What are you doing here,” she says, voice hushed but beaming up at him. 

“I can’t come and surprise my girl?” Peter tucks a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on the shell of her ear and all Lara Jean wants to do is keep kissing him. 

“Oh, you do that all time,” she teases, “Just never before dawn.”

He gives a sheepish shrug and tugs her outside, towards his car parked across the street. “I’m not really here for me,” Peter admits as they pull to a stop at the passenger side door and Lara Jean gasps at the sight of Kitty curled into a ball fast asleep. 

“Kitty!” 

“She called me earlier. Your dad’s working and Trina’s apparently in Austin and she and her friends got invited to a party at Ben Whitmer’s house and everything just spiraled,” Peter’s rambling, waving the hand not in her grip around in the air. “I didn’t want to take her back to an empty house.”  

“What happened?” she can see the tear tracks on her baby sister’s cheeks and smudges of mascara at the corner of her eyes. She turns to face Peter, who’s studiously avoiding her gaze, jaw clenched so tight she can see the muscles jumping in his neck. 

“Mike Cline, remember him? Douchebag goalie on the hockey team.” 

Lara Jean nods, breaking their hand hold to wrap her arms around Peter’s torso as his arms come up and around her shoulders. Cline was an entitled bully as a freshman and she’s sure it’s only gotten worse. 

“Well, he was at the party tonight and Kitty lost the girls she went with and he tried to—he, ah,” he doesn’t say it, but she can read between the lines. “Hey, hey, hey, he didn’t hurt her,” Peter’s quick to reassure her. “I think Kitty did some kinda taekwondo move and shook him off and then she went and hid in the bathroom.” 

They stand in the street for a little longer, watching as the sky starts to lighten from deep purple to pastel pinks and blues. “We should get her upstairs,” Peter says, breaking the quiet. “By the time I got to her, she’d already had a few drinks. She fell asleep as soon as I started driving.” 

“Yeah, good idea.” 

Peter scoops Kitty up out of the seat and follows Lara Jean back into the building, up the stairs, and into her apartment. She opens her bedroom door and riffles through her drawers for a clean t-shirt and sweatpants while Peter places Kitty on the bed. Lara Jean carefully switches Kitty’s party attire with the pajamas, smoothing Kitty’s hair from her face as she listens to Peter make a call in the living room to Daddy. Kitty barely flinches at the movement, nuzzling into Lara Jean’s pillow and letting out the softest of sighs. 

They’re still talking when Lara Jean joins Peter and she catches the tail end of their conversation, “No worries, Dr. C. I’ll make sure kitty is back in time for dinner on Sunday,” a pause and then, “Great, see you then. I’ll tell Lara Jean you say hi.” She watches Peter hang up and slip the phone in his back pocket. He smiles down at her and links their hands together, pulling her after him until they both fall back on the couch, Peter first and then Lara Jean sprawled on top of him. 

“How’s Kitty?” Peter’s running a hand through her hair and Lara Jean can feel herself grow drowsy in his embrace. 

“Fast asleep, I swear she could sleep through an earthquake,” she curls her fingers into his shirt, shifting slightly so the two of them are laying down across the couch, her body wedged between the cushions and Peter. “Thanks for getting her,” she whispers, “You didn’t have to do that.”  

“Of course I did,” he replies, his hands move from her hair, one gripping her hip and the other trailing down the curve of her jaw to tilt her head up. She looks up, his gaze as serious as she’s ever seen. “She’s your _sister_ , Lara Jean,” says Peter as if that explains everything and, maybe in a way, it does. 

She surges up for a kiss, Peter’s mouth opening underneath her onslaught as she tries to pour everything she’s feeling at this moment into it—gratefulness and appreciation and, most importantly, love. He responds in kind, his hands spanning her back, fingers following the curve of her spine. He breaks off to press kisses to her neck, her cheeks, her nose and Lara Jean finds her own hands wandering, moving from delving into his hair down his chest and dipping underneath the sweater he’s wearing, searching out warm, smooth skin. They’re not dumb, of course, Lara Jean knows that Kitty’s in the other room and both her roommates are home. But, for just a minute, she and Peter can exist in this little cocoon on the couch, where it’s just the two of them. 

They settle, eventually, Peter pulling the blanket off the back of the couch to cover them. He’s kicked off his shoes and ditched his jeans and Lara Jean’s pulled her long hair back into a sloppy braid. Peter fingers the ridges as she lays her head against his chest. “I don’t know why you bother,” he tells her, “I’m gonna mess with it anyways.” 

Lara Jean rolls her eyes, “Let me have the illusion, at least.” 

Peter chuckles, bringing his arms around her to give a hug, “Alright, Covey, as you wish.” 

She lays there, listening as his breathing slows and he drifts off to sleep. She knows she should she should close her eyes, can feel the grittiness behind her lids and the exhaustion deep in her bones, but there’s something precious about the moments she has with Peter, fewer and further the busier they get in college, and with Kitty in the next room, Lara Jean finds she doesn’t want to miss a second of it. 

 

——

 

He wakes to the sound of giggling girls, uncommon in his own house but always welcome at the Covey’s. He cracks open an eye to find Kitty sitting cross-legged in front of the couch, her hair tied back in two braids, face scrubbed clean of makeup and wearing a pair of leggings and a long sweater.

“You drool when you sleep,” she says, eyes narrowed and nose upturned. There’s a plate of eggs and bacon and pancakes on the table next to her and Peter can hear his stomach grumble at the sight of it. Kitty rolls her eyes and immediately drags the plate closer to her body, “Get your own, lover boy. Lara Jean’s cooking for a small army in there.” Peter laughs and tugs on a braid before tumbling off the couch. He stretches his arms high, feeling his bones crack and readjust from a night on the apartment’s too small couch, and stumbles into the kitchen.  

Lara Jean has an apron on over her pajamas and there’s a streak of pancake mix high across her cheekbone. She hasn’t noticed him yet, is too busy mixing ingredients together and humming along to the song on the radio. Peter leans against the wall, arms loosely crossed as he watches her. The sun streaming in from the window bounces off her hair, making the strands look brown and the last of her summer tan glow bronze. He moves suddenly, wrapping his arms around her when her back is to him and pressing a swift kiss to her cheek. 

“Morning,” he says, his face almost aching with how wide he’s smiling. Peter could get used to waking up to this view every morning. 

Lara Jean doesn’t jump, but she does swat him in the arm with back of her hand. He laughs and nuzzles his face in the crook of her neck, her familiar coconut scent reminding him of home. 

“I dug out some clothes of yours,” she tells him, concentrating on the pan full of bacon.  

“Since you steal all of mine,” he accuses her, digging a finger into her side and eliciting a loud giggle. 

“No, you’re just so forgetful that you leave full outfits for me to wash when you visit.” It’s true, he does, but mainly because he loves seeing what she’ll wear next of his and also because sometimes he’s so eager to surprise her that he’s halfway to her place before he realizes he’s forgotten to pack a bag. 

“How’s Kitty?” He ignores her directions, tearing off a piece of a cooling pancake and popping it in his mouth.  

“She’s okay. We talked this morning and then we called Margot. It was good.” she leans back against his chest and peter takes the opportunity to press another kiss to her cheek. “She likes to act so strong, you know. Kitty’s always been way more independent than me, that I forgot to check in on her.” 

Peter can see the guilt stretching across Lara Jean’s face and he spins her around, making sure to turn the heat off the bacon. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, no, you’re the best big sister to Kitty and she loves you so much. This isn’t on you.” 

“She told me what Cline asked her, about the hot tub video. It’s my job to protect her and instead I just gave them reasons to—“ 

He cuts her off, “No, whatever Cline said to her was messed up and undeserved and straight up rude.” He makes sure Lara Jean is looking at him, that she can’t hide or let the guilt grow, “It’s not your fault because Cline would’ve said the same stuff without a video. You and I both know that.” Peter pulls her in for a hug, winding his arms tight around her. He sees Kitty lurking in the corner and jerks his head, letting the youngest Covey join in the embrace. 

“You’re the best big sister,” Kitty tells Lara Jean, wide eyes earnest. 

“Better than Margot?” jokes Lara Jean, jostling Peter to wrap her arms around her sister. 

“No one’s better than Margot,” quips Kitty, like a line from a well-practiced play. 

Peter throws his arms around both Covey girls, “Group hug,” he shouts and Kitty lets out a loud groan. 

“Gross, there’s too many emotions in this kitchen.” 

Lara Jean laughs and starts to shoo them out of the cramped space, turning back to the mountain of breakfast food she’s in the midst of preparing. Kitty goes quickly, insisting that her show is about to start and that last week ended on the _biggest cliffhanger ever Lara Jean_ and that she can’t miss it. Peter’s slower to move, busy distracting Lara Jean with kisses or stealing bites of food until she all but pushes him out of the kitchen and down the hall to her bedroom, “Go take a shower and, ugh, brush your teeth.” 

Peter grins, swooping down for one last kiss, on the mouth this time, and it’s definitely more PG-13 than they usually indulge in with Kitty in the room. But, Lara Jean damn near melts against him as she kisses him back and it’s only the threat of burnt pancakes that has her breaking the kiss and him heading to the bathroom. He stops on the way to ruffle Kitty’s hair and when she scowls up at him, Peter just grins and whistles as he walks away, deciding there is no better way to spend a Saturday morning than with two of his best girls. Well, and bacon, duh.  


End file.
